


rivers and roads

by ok_thanks



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, a not Time Traveler's Wife AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 18:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ok_thanks/pseuds/ok_thanks
Summary: One boy after another and they feel all the same.





	

**Author's Note:**

> the timeline jumps around and there's also poetry because why not?

The world is, objectively, large. Jo knows this. Nate knows this. Every child above the age of four across North America probably knows this.

 

Subjectively, the world feels small the first time Nate sees Jo step on the ice for warm-ups in Denver. 

 

When Nate watches Jo across the face-off circle, tacet and serious and openly eager, focused on the win, the world is miniscule. Claustrophobic. Unbearable.

 

The world feels empty and quiet when Jo leaves, wheels up. Forty-thousand feet above the mountains and the snow and the bleak emptiness Nate wades in.

 

This is a story of small grievances.

 

\----------------------

 

When it starts - when it noticeably starts, Nate is only a teenager.

 

He isn’t old or aged or experienced in any way. He is young and eager and when he sees Jo, he yearns for a feeling he knows nothing about. Yearns for movement and opportunity and the ability to slow time, to savor every moment together.

 

\----------------------

 

Nate doesn’t remember how this started, or even when - but when he wakes up slowly, toes stretching lazily beneath the sheets, he is remotely aware he went to bed at twenty-one, alone and in Colorado.

 

But now - now, Nate is in Tampa, too hot under the humid screen of spring, the heat of another body beside his.

 

Now, Nate is not twenty-one, he is younger and smaller and rolling with the beginnings of a hangover.

 

He is in bed with a boy whose heart he has broken. He is making a regrettable decision, for the second time. Nate has been here before, has fallen into this bed, has taken from Jo something he said they could never have again.

 

He has already lived this mistake. Has already lived this day.

 

\----------------------

  
  


                                       (Jo is good.

 

             If you had to pick a word - only one, to describe Jo, it would be good. 

 

                          He is kind 

                                       and sweet 

                                                    and remembers when to switch the loads of laundry 

                          and when to take Nate’s dogs out 

             and how much milk is left. 

 

             He is good at stickhandling

                          and shooting 

                                       and taping sticks. 

 

He is good at being good.

 

             You, in contrast, have never been good. 

                          Under the seems you have always been anxious 

                                       and desperate 

                                                    and clingy, 

always trailing behind Jo. 

 

             You are not good, not in your eyes. 

                          Probably not in Jo’s eyes.)

 

\----------------------

 

The goal comes in overtime. But it isn’t enough.

 

                          It’s never enough - not the goal, not the team, not Nate.

 

He had gripped Jo’s hand the night before, had said to him things he had abstained from before. He had his heart in his hands and this time he reached forward, reached out to Jo and begged, reached out and apologized and explained and said in a strong voice:  _ I love you, I miss you, I’m sorry I let you think I didn’t. _

 

And Jo took a page out of Nate’s book and left, easy as that. Ten steps out the door, four doors down, to the left and with the swipe of key, the turn on a handle, he was gone.

 

             And Nate was alone.

 

And the team was eliminated. And Nate watched with a carefully controlled expression as Jo boarded his flight, patting the boys on the back as he went.

 

Jo says nothing to Nate, which in itself, says it all.

 

\----------------------

 

Nate buys a GameCenter subscription during Jo’s first season.

 

And he watches faithfully. As faithfully as someone else playing an NHL season can, at least.

 

Nate is not allowed this, is not allowed to leave Jo, to leave everything they had, and come back and say  _ wait, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. _

 

So he watches the games. 

 

\----------------------

 

The World Cup was fine.

 

This might be a bad description but -

 

Nate took honors english all through high school and read every damn book, every page assigned of poetry and every line about prose and syntax and tone and all he can think of to describe the World Cup is fine.

 

Jo was fine. The team was fine. All the added media and the low expectations and the sharing a hotel room with Seth Jones - it was all  _ Fine _ .

 

Because - Nate is not a strong man. The first day of training camp he can hear coach blow the whistle and thumb through the mental catalog of plays before saying, “Drouin, Mackinnon: get out there together.”

 

Nate’s lived through Halifax recently, through the sweat of Moosehead hockey, but this -

 

Jo on his wing is as easy and good as breathing. They fit together in ways Nate had forgotten about. And God - Nate knows it hasn’t been that long, but he aches in a way not unfamiliar to him. Deeper and more urgent than ever before.

 

Seth comments on it. Because of course he does. He was at the draft, he was at media days and the combine and all their prospect events.

 

He knows Nate and Jo. He knows Nate.

 

“Soooo,” Seth drawls, flicking a ball across their hotel room to Ryan, because oh yes, having Seth as a roommate almost always guarantees the addition of a friend.

 

“Please just say it, Seth.”

 

Ryan snorts. Nate hates the Blue Jackets suddenly.

 

“You and Jon?”

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Sure, bud.”

 

Nate groans. He already knows how this affair ends. How Jo’s mouth will taste before Nate desperately clings to the hope of more.

 

             (Nate will say: I still love you.

 

And Jo will pace across the room 

                          And hum and hum and hum

             Until the room is alive and buzzing with this feeling, the need for energy and answers and closure.

 

             They had a friendship that was cautious and on the mend until Nate breathed ragged breaths and said:

             I’m tired

And

             I’m sorry

And

             I miss you

 

                                                                             I still love you

 

                          (I always loved you.)

 

Nate will say: Look at me, Jo.

                          But there is no time for love in this version of their world 

 

All the space for love is occupied by pain and nostalgia and the aching familiarity of them together.

 

So Nate will say, “Look at me, Jo,” in a voice so soft and sweet and pleading

 

             and Jo will say: Don’t.

 

So lock up the doors, lock up your heart, son.

             Stand strong is that all you have?

 

Is that all it takes to knock you down?

 

Don’t answer any of these questions.)

  
  


Nate let’s the silence hang between them.

 

Seth says, “Jesus, Mac. At least say something to him.”

 

Ryan says, “Honesty is the best policy,” because he is a good western Canadian boy and he probably has kitchy wood tiles with inspirational quotes in his apartment that say things like  _ stars can’t shine without darkness _ and  _ whatever you decide to do, make sure it makes you happy  _ and Nate wants to hate him so badly.

 

Nate says, “I’m fine,” and almost believes himself.

 

\----------------------

 

Nate won the calder. Jo always said he would. Always said he’d deserve it.

 

Jo never texted to congratulate him. Never responded when he called. Nate guesses he deserved that, too.

 

\----------------------

 

Nate doesn’t renew his GameCenter subscription during Jo’s second season.

 

He doesn’t watch a single game.

 

But it doesn’t matter. He stills hears all the gossip, can still sense the outcome of Jo’s game from the way he speaks, rare and cautious in a broken friendship.

 

Over the summer Jo had said, “We should try to be friends, if you still want?”

 

As if he didn’t know how much Nate thought of him, of how much he  _ wanted _ .

 

Nate stays in Denver and let’s Tyson take him out and pour him shots and promise that, “tonight is the night we find someone for you, Mac. Eh?” And Nate obliges, he always does, and after so many drinks he will let himself relax and trace the bottom banner of ESPN to find the Lightning score. This settles him somehow.

 

                          (Say, with irredeemable marks, that you are not forgiven,

             There is no cure for this plague

                          No remedy, no redemption.

 

                                                                              Sudden. Consuming. Darkness.

 

             We could come to a screeching halt

             We could witness every ending

                          Over and over and over again.)

 

\----------------------

 

Nate lets the bus lull him to sleep because, wait - this is Halifax again. And they take the bus in Halifax. Everywhere.

 

Jo is beside him, against him, on top of him. His shoulder slumps in, head lolling into Nate’s space. The air is thick and smokey between them. Someone is burning something nearby, nothing industrial and rough like the cityscape. Nate breathes in once, twice, three times more.

 

There’s a hand snaked around his, subtle under the throw of jackets and pillows and the maze of cords. Nate squeezes his grip, lets the weight of Jo’s palm against his occupy his mind in these few moments. 

 

Jo, rough with sleep beside him, tenses briefly. Nate sweats until a firm pressure closes down on his fingers, just on this side of too rough.

 

Nate breathes in again. And again, and again, and again. Sleep finds him slowly, time finds him slowly, but surely, as always.

 

\----------------------

 

Denver is an abrasive grey. Nate knows this is more or less the constant state in winter. Can detect the very season from the hum of the heater, the cough of a roommate outside his door, the layers of clothing atop him.

 

This is Denver in the winter and Nate is cold and alone. Nate is slumped out with one sock missing, a half of the bed left empty, a heart neglected. 

 

Some days he can feel it so distinctly, the absence of Jo.

 

Some days it feels hazy, as if him and Jo never existed, never got their chance.

 

There’s a voice inside his head that nags and nags and nags and every day, with increasing urgency, Nate feels the hole that’s left inside of him.

 

Jo is not in Denver, he rarely is. 

 

Nate is in Denver usually, more frequently when he is waking up, uprooted from his life.

 

There was a linear pattern once, but now Nate feels swamped, unable to remember where he started, where he truly belongs.

 

Be proud and be faithful but do not ever be alone.

 

Nate runs the lines through his head and aches to remember, aches to find an end, to find a meaning.

 

He sits in the silence, wallows in the hollow cage of his chest.

 

Sometimes there are no words, there is no possible way to articulate the complexity of what he is feeling, of what is breaking him apart.

 

He holds on longingly in these moments and prays to a god above, to anyone who will listen.

 

He was told, when you pray there is still a chance, there is still the rumor of hope. Nate clings blindly to this.

 

He’s blinking through the tears and before he realizes that he is in Newark and not Denver and his heart is not empty, but it is tattered and battered and worn. Nate cannot decipher which day the feelings are from.

 

But if Nate is Newark, if Nate is politely abstained from particular color choices -

 

Jo is here.

 

The relief that washes of him is clear and distinct and welcoming, in a twisted way. It doesn’t feel like home because Nate knows this isn’t home, he is going backwards. He is not moving forwards and he may have Jo now, but in the years to come? The years of Denver burgundy and silver and an unnamable blue?

 

Nate shudders. The shower he hadn’t heard running earlier shuts off and Nate watches with eagle eyes as the door opens. He watches Jo emerge, splotchy and flushed and all of eighteen years old. He quirks his lips and in an instant Nate draws back into the worst loop of the Time Traveler’s Wife. Again, and again, and again Nate leaves. And again, and again, and again Nate reappears, somewhere else in time. Somewhere connected to Jo.

 

Nate doesn’t believe in time travel, obviously. Jo does not know this happens to him, does not have a list of all the times Nate will pop into his life, does not ask him to bring a spare outfit because Nate is not naked when he appears.

 

Or comes into consciousness. He hasn’t worked out all the semantics.

 

But he did not ask for this and he does not will himself here and there, does not ask to bounce between weeks of his life. Doesn’t ask to watch, on a loop, his relationship with Jo build up only to fall apart, moments later with no apparent explanation. Again, and again, and again, and again.

  
  


Nate doesn’t know what this means. If this is a dream or a ruse or a hallucination. He doesn’t know if this is a journey and that at the end he will find out that he is dead and that he is in heaven or in hell or a purgatory of the worst kind. 

 

Nate is stuck in this loop of in and out. Of back and forth. And no one notices, definitely not Jo. Certainly not Gabe or Matt or any teammate that fits the stereotype: strong, tall, modest but unwilling to admit defeat. One boy after another and they feel all the same.

  
  


\-----------

  
  


“I requested a trade,” Jo says softly over the phone and Nate already knows. Already got the notification on his phone. Already lived the outcome of this venture.

 

Nate says nothing, but Jo knows what that means, lets himself continue. “I was thinking Montreal.”

 

This is uncomfortable silence. They’re on the mend, is what Jo had said when he phoned Nate one night, tired and jittery and speaking with a nervousness Nate was not accustomed to hearing.

 

“Always the good Canadian boy.”

 

“Ha,” Jo laughs, hasty and faux light about the situation. “Maybe Columbus?”

 

His voice is throaty but light as the words fall off his tongue, because this is supposed to be a joke because in the current season, in the season Jo is living in, the Blue Jackets are a last place team. Bottom of the barrel. Who would believe in them?

 

A year from now and it could as easily have been the Avs that he said, that he suggested as a joke, because only a crazy person would go there.

 

             (Only a crazy person would stay there,

 

                          Paper to pen, 7 years worth of Avalanches

 

This isn’t Nate’s problem yet.

             Isn’t his purgatory yet.

                          Hold tight, the waves are still coming.)

 

“Montreal isn’t looking too hot, Jo.”

 

“I know, but if they got me?” 

 

This is also a joke. Jo is not narcissistic like this, he’s waiting for Nate to take the bait. Nate always takes the bait, that’s why they’re so good. Why they  _ were _ .

 

Nate gets Jo, he gets what fuels him, what motivates him. How it hurts to be injured like him, to be hundreds of miles from home, to be scared and lonely and insecure about his identity in this environment.

 

Nate does not understand Jo right now. Does not understand why Jo would leave Tampa which is warm and scenic and has a strong team, a team that went to the Cup final the previous year. A team that will take the Penguins to game 7 this year. A team that will give him good minutes and spots on the power play, will start him in overtime.

 

Not that Jo knows that, though.

 

Jo asks where else he could go and Nate doesn’t say Colorado but Jo doesn’t want him to. And that’s fine.

 

Nate ends the night in Denver alone, unsure where he stands.

 

\-----

 

             (the ringing you hear isn’t in your ears

Look closer 

and feel the ground shift and his legs give out and:

The sickening storm inside him brew

 

                          This is pain: cold, hard, and fast.

             Faster than you can skate

             Or ride your bike

             Or run, and run, and run

Faster than the wind and the sea and the stars you wished upon.

 

He is anchored to the ground and watch now, zoom in close, to his hair cropped tightly

             To his fingers dug into his leg.

Pain and pain and pain.

 

                                           You cannot make this stop, 

                                                    No matter how many lives you lead.

 

             Look at the boy you love

             Look at this face, and the splotches of colors draining from his cheeks-

             Look at his leg,

                          [avoid the blood, the cry poised on his lips-

                                       It makes this easier in the long run; to not know]

             Look and stare and realize:

                          You are living and breathing to witness this moment.)

 

\-----

 

Halifax is complicated. 

 

Waking up in Halifax, towards the end of their stay, is even worse with the knowledge of what has happened in hand.

 

Sometimes Nate relives it. Sometimes he prays, long and desperate, for a mysterious force to swallow him whole. To take him away - take him anywhere but here.

 

Because the story of Halifax isn’t tragic, not initially.

 

But it was painful. When he moved up and Jo stayed, anxious and jealous and just a bit pissy.

 

Jo’s face had split with anger as he left, hurt obvious and glaring as Nate stepped closer, a consolatory arm extended.

 

There were things, deep things, serious things, Nate knew he should have said. Feelings he was pushing down, neglecting beside his pride and his happiness and his love for Jo.

 

At eighteen Tampa felt a million miles away.

 

At eighteen, Jo felt a million miles away, even as Nate stood across from him, eyes sad and pleading.

 

Nate doesn’t visit Halifax often, but every time he does it is sour and somber and obtrusive in the worst way.

 

\----------------------

 

Nate blinks once, twice, three times before Nova Scotia disperses, watches in a cooling glow the essence of energy, the hard, mechanical rush of air conditioning on his back. He is at a press conference in a sweaty burgundy jersey and a thousand blinking lights are vying for his attention, are screaming out to him.

 

_ Nate! Nate! Tell us how it feels? _

 

_ Did you think this day would ever come? _

 

In, out. In, out. That’s how you breathe. In and out and over again. The shallow, rugged breaths Nate is huffing are not helping him because -

 

_ Nate, how does it feel to be a Stanley Cup champion? _

 

\----------------------

 

Jo visits during his bye week. Nate isn’t sure if he’s surprised, but when he wakes up and sees Jo sleepily flipping through the channels his heart thumps louder, harder inside his chest.

 

There’s not a game today, but there’s practice and workouts and game tape to be watched.

 

These are all insignificant pieces.

 

“Oh,” Jo yawns, turning his body slightly, blocking the sun that slips through the flimsy, plastic blinds Nate never bothered replacing. “You’re awake.”

 

“Rise and shine to you too, Jonathan.” Jo grins, lopsided, and leans back, lays himself across Nate’s chest.

 

“What are we watching?” Nate whispers. Jo is right here, his back pressed against Nate’s chest, paler from the Colorado winter than Jo is on the Gulf, freckled and warm under Nate’s touch. With Jo right there, there is no need to raise his voice.

 

“Tiny house stuff.”

 

“Tiny houses?”

 

Jo hums in affirmation and shuffles backwards, laying his weight against Nate more.

 

“You’re a little big for a tiny house.”

 

“Didn’t say it’s my dream house, just interesting is all.” Nate snickers and leans into Jo.

 

“Where’s your dream house then, Jo?”

 

“Tampa,” he says with no hesitation; barely any thought.

 

“Yeah?.”

 

“Wanna live on the water, probably. A big house, because we’d have dogs. But not too big, Stamkos’ ego needs to remain intact for our playoffs push.” Jo replies easily, as if the commitment to  _ we _ was as easy as breathing, as easy as instinct.

 

“You want me in Tampa?”

 

Jo rolls his eyes like  _ duh _ and Nate blushes, has to bury his face in Jo’s neck to hide the heat and fluttering inside his stomach, equal parts affection and dread.

  
  


Nate untangles himself, eventually and reluctantly, and goes to practice. He moves seamlessly through the motions, never foreign despite the plethora of faces.

 

Matt is still here. Nate studies his movements intensely, imagining the team without him. Imagining a cup without him.

 

“You’re so out of it, bud,” Tyson says to him as they undress and Nate swallows down an excuse. He showers quickly and all but sprints to his car, drives impatiently home to Jo, to peace and love and the easy silence of his company.

 

They watch the Nuggets game and shoot hoops in the snow while the sun spreads itself thin behind the treeline and Nate is grinning and glowing, stomach fluttery and cheeks stung from the cold.

And then they sleep.

 

Nate is helpless in the flicker and fade of the setting sun. Jo lies still, sleeping like the dead, exhausted from sickness and the season and jet lag because, “yes, it still happens with a two hour time difference, Nathan, it’s perfectly normal.” And god, sometimes Nate is overcome with a love for him so great, so monumental that he feels helpless.

 

Nate studies him, studies the lines of his face, the slow rise of his chest, and everything inside him aches.

 

Jo wants him to be honest this time around, the expectation, though reasonable, rolls around Nate’s mind in the hours he goes without sleep.

 

The clock blinks on, staring him down across the room.

 

“I don’t know what to say to you,” Nate breathes out. Where would he start?  _ I saw the future and in it I am healthy and happy. I have everything I have always worked for. And you have nothing. You’re injured and retired by 25 and never won the cup or an olympic medal or any of the awards you desperately deserved. I lie to you again, I hurt you again, I make mistakes. I’m not good enough for you, but I’m the one living out our dreams. _

 

Jo shifts in his sleep, his face contorting into a sour look, lips turned downward. Nate feels selfish and greedy and wrong for being here, for knowing what will happen and how he is powerless to change any of it.

 

Nate squeezes his eyes shut painfully, hold his breath and waits for something to happen, for something to change and take him away.

 

Time moves slowly when you least want it to, he’s learned.

 

\----------------------

 

It felt right to be there. For how long that feeling stayed, Nate could not tell. Could not decipher what the rapid thumping of his heart, the rolling sickness inside him, what the cool, tangible weight on his finger symbolized.

 

It was just sound. And time.

 

Fragments thrown together, spanning infinitely and instantly, simultaneously.

 

_ Control your breathing _ , Nate hears.

 

_ Step forward, Mackinnon _ he reminds himself. _ Move to the beat, slide your feet this way, now back.  _

 

He sees February and March and October all in a heartbeat. December chased away by the heat of Halifax in the summer, Montreal in May.

 

He sees hockey, feels the skates under his weight, the sticks tucked beneath the crease of his arms. He hears murmurs at night, soft crooning over the phone; both apologies and beginnings.

 

He hears  _ I love you; I miss you; I wish you hadn’t said that; it’s not my home anymore. _

 

There is sound and time and both slide into each other, both throw themselves around so often and so flagrantly that the ache inside of him has yet to subside. It’s been months, maybe. Weeks, or years, or even days. Nate has no proof, no firm ground to step upon and rationalize with.

 

There is just time. And sound.

 

Until there is nothing.

 

\----------------------

 

“Please wake up,” is this first thing Nate hears the next morning. This, although not particularly rushed, is shortly followed by, “Oh my god, Nathan, wake the fuck up!”

 

It’s Jonathan. Obviously.

 

“Jo?”

 

“Oh, thank god.”

 

There is sun and warmth and a spread of heat and happiness inside his body, pulling Nate into consciousness easily. There is also Jo, perched on the foot of his bed, faux relaxed. As if he has ever done anything nonchalantly in his life.

 

“What’s happening?”

 

“Nothing.” Jo shrugs.

 

“Nothing?” Nate repeats incredulously. “You just woke me up at six in the morning. To say nothing?”

 

“We should go for a walk,” is all Jo replies with.

 

They go for a walk. In Tampa, the sun rises earlier, and with that is a humidity Nate is unaccustomed to. It’s summer. Nate has not lived this day yet.

 

“I like these flowers,” Nate comments when they pass a garden, and Jo just grins, dopey and sweet and so soft it nearly throws Nate off.

 

“You say that every time.”

 

“That’s cause I like them every time.”

 

“Okay, dork.” Jo smiles still, walks closer to Nate in the morning light. “When I win the cup,” Jo says, poorly imitating Nate. “I’m gonna take it to these flowers.”

 

This is the game they used to play in juniors, during the endless bus rides or the drives to school, any time a silence occupied the air. Nate would always say, “When I win the cup, I’m taking it…” and would let Jo think of the craziest place he could.

 

_ When I win the Cup, I’m taking it to DollyWood. _

 

_ When I win the Cup, I’m taking it to an old Blockbuster Video. _

 

_ When I win the Cup, I’m taking it to Disney, to a Taco Bell, to Lake Baikal. _

 

Nate’s chest tightens and he reaches for Jo’s hand. 

 

“When I win the cup,” Jo says, himself this time. “I’m taking it to our house.” Sweet and soft and Nate is falling, falling, falling because -

 

Jo doesn’t know.

 

This is a loaded statement. 

 

Jo doesn’t know a lot of things. He doesn’t know the truth about alien life forms or how to file taxes in America or all the towing laws in Florida. He doesn’t know that one day Nate will raise the Stanley Cup and that one day, one day soon, he will be injured and retired and will lose hockey. That he will lose the sport he worked for since he was a kid.

 

Jo doesn’t know how much Nate loves him and how much he wants to work to keep the thing they have and how much he wants to make Jo happy. How he never wants to stop waking up next to him.

 

He can’t tell Jo all of these things, but he can slot his fingers between Jo’s and squeeze briefly, softly bringing their hands to his mouth.

 

“You’re so quiet this morning.”

 

“Well, you’re the one who dragged me out of bed for a walk.”

 

“I like walking with you. I like the view.” Jo ducks his head in, blush spanning across his face, visible in the pink glow of the cityscape.

 

“Tampa is nice,” Nate says. It’s not a lie.

 

“We have more cap space now.”

 

“I’m aware of this.”

 

“I’m just saying, if you ever want to expand that list of teams you could be traded to.” Nate can feel his pulse rise, his hand as it sweats under Jo’s hold.

 

There are moments like this, times when the weight of what he knows feels unbearable.

 

Before him is Jo, vulnerable and sweet, asking him to consider playing for the Lightning. But he can read between the lines, it’s glaringly obvious here. Jo says, “Would you ever play here?” and Nate hears what’s there. He hears words about commitment and love and the future.

 

Despite everything, Nate doesn’t know where they stand in the future. It’s a halting thought.

 

Beside him, Jo fidgets. Nate watches him step quietly, pretending to admire the scenery. Palm trees to the left, palm trees to the right. Moss and bugs and the early pieces of a day together. Nate’s known him for years and he knows how Jo gets defensive.

 

“Hey,” Nate says, tugging Jo into him, full stop in front of a neighbor’s house. “It’s the top of the list, Jo. You’re the top of the list. Always.”

 

“Always?” 

 

“I thought that was pretty obvious.”

 

Jo smiles, soft and a little crooked and Nate could live in this moment forever.

 

“I was going to wait until mile three to say this but-”

 

Jo doesn’t drop to his knee, but -

 

“Oh,” Nate says dumbly.

 

“I don’t have rings or much of a speech planned, but, Nate? If you want to?”

 

                                       (These are the words not exchanged, the words they never had to say.

 

Because if Jo had said: Will you marry me?

                          There would be more weight than either of them could handle.

 

             But if Jo says, in more simplistic words.

In less words -

 

                          Nate will know. Nate has always known this.)

 

“If I want to?” Nate pokes teasingly at his chest, swaying forward to invade his personal space.

 

It’s so stupid. Jo is proposing to him on a random street in Florida, of all god forsaken places, and Nate can feel the tightness in his throat even before he speaks, his voice cracking like he’s fourteen years old all over again.

 

“Yes, Jo. Duh.”

 

There’s no time for Jo to laugh and tease him for an inarticulate reply because Nate leans in, real quick, and steals a kiss that’s all giddiness and sunlight and love, love, love.

 

\----------------------

 

Nate runs.

 

This is no exaggeration. 

 

He wakes up, checks the date, and books a ticket to Tampa International, the price tag a forgotten blip.

 

And then Nate runs.

 

He sprints, leaving his muscles to groan and protest as he takes the stairs two at a time. Down and down and down and down - breaking only long enough to get in the car and go again.

 

He’s been planning this, for how many years he doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is the road and distance and all the miles he desperately logs between his apartment in Cole Harbour and the airport. 

 

The thought doesn’t even occur to him until he’s sliding past the security gate and Oh -

 

Because Nate has no idea if Jo is in Tampa, if he’s even in the States.

 

There’s at least ten people in Nate’s phone (excluding Jo’s parents and siblings because, no thank you) that will know his whereabouts. In a mild hysteria, Nate forgets this and dials a number not often used.

 

It’s not the worst possible choice. He could have called Ryan Murray. Fuck, he could have called Seth and that would be worse than this because -

 

Nate calls Steven Stamkos to track down his ex boyfriend and high school sweetheart.

 

To his credit, he lasts a good two minutes before cracking the small talk about Stammer’s kids and his dog and how nice Toronto is in the summer. 

 

“Listen-” he breathes out, the words spilling his from mouth. “I really need to know where Jo is and if he’s in Montreal or like, fucking Florida, I just - it’s important.”

 

“Nate-”

 

“And I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t an emergency, but I know he usually checks in with you and--”

 

“Nate,” Stammer says again, more force behind his voice.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. I had to get your attention.” There’s no malice behind his voice, no pity or confusion or signs of distrust. “He’s in town.”

 

“Um?”

 

“Tampa, Nate. Jon is in Tampa.”

 

The sigh of relief travels through Nate’s entire body, and apparently the phone based on the soft laughter Stammer fails to disguise.

 

“Oh,” is all Nate can think to say. “Thats - that’s good. Thanks.”

 

Nate doesn’t sleep on the plane, doesn’t do much beside drink coffee and stare down at the pages of SkyMall, lazily completing a sudoku. 

 

There’s two texts waiting for him when he flips airplane mode off, his flight still taxiing on the runway. Tampa is warm and bright and flat, the antithesis to Denver.

 

Stamkos sends an address, followed by:  _ he’s probably here based on when you’ll land. _

 

And Seth has sent:  _ HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA _

 

Because apparently Steven Stamkos is a snitch and a gossip and there are no secrets in the National Hockey League.

 

Nate fires off a quick  _ Thanks!!!!  _ to Stammer and  _ at least im not in love w ryan murray, bro _ to Seth, just to ruffle his feathers.

 

Seth never replies and Nate drifts through customs and immigration in a blur, books a rental car with no care for style or capacity.

  
  
  


Stammer gave him the address to a school. Nate had expected an apartment complex or an office building or even an ice rink, some kind of sports complex. Somewhere corporate and nice and overwhelming plain. 

 

Nate didn’t expect a grade school.

 

He catches them amidst a teacher’s planning day and the receptionist tells Nate with a raised eyebrow that, “Mr. Drouin’s classroom is number 106, to your left.”

 

Nate does not believe it up until the moment his eyes see it, till he skims his fingers over the plaque mounted to the door:

 

Jonathan Drouin, third overall draft pick in the 2012 NHL draft, former star of the Tampa Bay Lightning, grade school French teacher.

 

It’s quite the resume.

 

Nate knocks with no preamble; no time to talk himself out of this. He rasps once, twice, three times on the doorframe.

 

Someone inside the room calls out, “Parent teacher conferences are already over, sorry!”

 

                          (You could leave right now.

               Leave and never come back,

                                       No one would even know, 

                          No one would even care, except -)

 

Nate’s feet move on their own accord and it takes him a long moment to take everything in.

 

Jo is older, the lines of his face more defined, softer without the rigorous training of hockey. There’s no visible mark of the injury, but Nate sees the way he shifts, redistributing the weight off his bad foot.

 

Nate says, “Hi,” because there is nothing else to say. No other words that come to mind.

 

Based on the way Jo drops the book in his hand and chokes on his coffee, Nate assumes for all Stammer’s gossiping, he never actually told Jo he was coming.

 

Jo wheezes briefly, an attempt to clear his throat.

 

Nate doesn’t ask if it’s a bad time because he already knows. There’s never going to be a good time for this, a convenient time for this.

 

Jo says, “Nate,” and every fiber in his body is set alight.

 

Breathe in and out, Nate reminds himself. In and out and in and -

 

Fuck the breathing exercise. Jo is here and sturdy and Nate is still so weak for him and Nate  _ wants _ .

 

Jo says, “Nate,” louder this time, voice clear and firm.

 

There aren’t enough words for this moment, not enough time to explain everything, to tell Jo everything. 

 

“I have something to show you?” Nate says, voice trailing off with uncertainty.

 

Jo raises an eyebrow, but hold his reservations to himself. “Okay,” he says calmly, as if this is a normal occurrence. “I have to finish up here. And go home first for something, but then…”

 

Jo doesn’t finish, but Nate hears the words all the same.

 

“Great, yeah. I’ll just - hang here?”

 

“Sure,” Jo says.

 

Nate is unaccustomed to awkwardness with Jo. He can still feel him out, still read his body language and the expressions on his face, but there’s years of silence clouding his vision. Jo is grown up now, he has a name tag that says  _ Monsieur Drouin _ , a desk full of papers to prove so.

 

Twenty slow minutes pass before Jo clears his throat again, slides a drawer closed and turns his computer off. The screensaver has rotated photos every thirty seconds on a loop while Nate’s waited, and if he saw one of the two of them together, that’s for him to keep to himself.

 

Jo says, “So I don’t know if you have a car, but I didn’t drive?”

 

“I do,” Nate nods. “You don’t?”

 

Jo rolls his eyes at that. “No, I do. Just usually carpool is all.”

 

Nate says, “Oh,” and then, “I’ll take us back to your place.”

  
  


They don’t talk in the car.

 

Maybe they should, but Nate doesn’t mind and Jo looks content to give simple directions as they go.

 

Nate’s always liked Tampa. He understands why Jo stayed.

 

             (It’s because you left,

Nate reminds himself.

 

                                       He went down and through all the pain

                 And all the fog

                          He asked where he should go.

                          And you never called.

You never opened your door.)

 

Jo says, “I just have to walk my dog if you wanna come inside?”

 

Nate nods quickly. He’s not afraid Jo will change his mind and throw him out in huffing rage - they’re not eighteen anymore. There’s a settled glow around their bones, an ache that needs settling.

 

Jo opens the door.

 

Jo owns a yellow lab, Nate forgot this.

 

             (Jo never liked labs - you always did,

Nate tells himself.)

 

“Hey, Sadie. Hey, baby,” Nate babbles, crouching to her level. Through the kisses and sniffing Jo laughs, nothing for show. Something soft and personal, a relic of their past.

 

“I forgot you’ve met her.”

 

“Dude,” Nate says. “I was there when you got her.” Jo’s eyes steady nods shortly, a small shake of himself to draw him back to focus. Nate is not much better.

 

While Jo gets her leash, Nate ducks into the bathroom and stands above the sink, hand gripped to the porcelain for support. 

 

Breathe in, and out. In and out, Nate tells himself.

 

He has a plan, he’s been working on this for years. 

 

“Follow through, Mackinnon.”

  
  


(Outside the bathroom there’s two hooks,

             Look closely, your eyes may play tricks on you

 

             In the photograph is you:

Young and rampant and in love.

Two boys,

             No brakes.

Blue and white and blue and white

             And red.

 

Jon is grinning easily.

             You loved him then

And you love him now

             And not much has changed.

 

Be proud and be faithful but do not ever be alone.

             Tell this boy you love him.)

  
  


Nate reenters the kitchen and says, “It’s not that far. Are you good to walk?”

Jo just glares.

 

“Ready when you are, Mac.”

  
  


It’s a two mile walk, Nate mapped it in the bathroom. 

 

Two miles and three and a half years.

 

Nate measures the distance between them. His hand on Sadie’s leash, Jo’s wrapped around a tennis ball, bouncing up and down and up and down and up and -

 

He doesn’t ask why Nate’s here still.

 

Nate can see the house ahead and suddenly the palms of his hands are sweaty and his whole body feels on edge.

 

Before the reach the driveway, Nate turns to say, “Okay, so-” and Jo sends him a quizzical look.

 

“What’s up, Nate?”

 

Sometimes, as even Ryan Murray says, honesty is the best policy.

 

“I own this house.”

 

Jo laughs, forced. “What are you talking about?”

 

“I own this house.”

 

“You own this house?”

 

“Yes,” Nate tells him.

 

“Can you clarify this situation for me?”

 

Nate groans, flushing with embarrassment. In his head, this was a big, romantic reveal, not him and Jo scorched beneath the Florida sun, struggling to articulate anything.

 

“Five years ago you proposed to me on a random street in Tampa, and the next day I went out and bought this land.” Jo opens his mouth and Nate waves him off. “No, no, no. Let me just -”

 

_ Embarrass myself? Give myself an ulcer? Die? _

 

_ All of the above? _

 

Jo gives him time.

 

                              (In the prayer your mother taught you as a child, it says:

               Love is patient, love is kind

               It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

 

                              Look at your hands and the soles of your feet

                              Question the conflict,

                              Internal and gasping and see

 

               See all your love

                            And all your patience

                                         See all your kindness

 

Through and through and through

             And hold no reserves,

                          Say to him:

 

             I bought this land

                          For you

 

Because I would have done

             Anything

                          For you

 

I bought this house

             And I bought this land

 

                                       And through and through and through

                          I bought this for us,

                                                    I bought this for you.

                                                                                                       )

  
  


Jo is quiet and in the wake of silence, the absence of sound, the time slinks past at an almost unbearable pace.

 

“Why did you keep it? After it ended. Why did you?”

 

There is a beat, a lapse, just a second where Nate worries this was the wrong call. That he shouldn’t have booked the flight, shouldn’t have done any of this at all. But Jo is good and Jo is patient and kind. In the end, that is all that matters.

Nate says everything. Anything he can think of from the years they’ve known each other. He says, in all honesty, thoughts he’d staved off, emotions he blocked. And all the thing he repelled, Nate lays at his feet.

 

                                 (we deserve this:

 

               to be able to hold on tightly

               to be able to say openly, we did what we did,

 

                              that we will not change that

                              and we will not go back

 

please, do not let me go back

please, believe that we have changed and that we have grown

 

               that in the spots i used to burn 

                            and ache 

                                          there is a purpose 

                                                          and a promise of more.)

  
  


Nate is acutely aware that Jo’s crying when he says, “Because I loved you. I still do, Jo. I thought it was obvious.”

 

The sudden weight of Jo’s body is momentarily disarming, enough for Jo to wrap his arms around Nate’s body and say, “Nate, Nate, Nate.” over and over and over again, like a prayer.

 

And in return Nate says, “I love you, I missed you, I want forever this time.”

 

Jo kisses him quiet, and in the distant thrum of the city, Nate’s heart feels alive. Time hums and turns before them and Nate can see them clearly now. Two figures engulfed in light. Four years before, love and trust.

 

Both of them in blue and white

               and blue and white

                              (no red)

  
  


\----------------------

 

Nate wakes up in Tampa the next morning.

               And the day after that.

                              And the day after that.

 

Again, and again, and again.


End file.
